Ghost of a Rose
by Joy Law
Summary: France was not going to lose to England. No sir, not today. She'd do much more than punch him if he though she was weak. Similarly, Jean was not going to give up until he managed to get the French people's morale back up. And he was going to do it. Even if he pretended to be a woman. A nyo!FrancexJeanne Hundred Years War fic.
1. Chapter 1

I'm back! But not with the North Dakota fix I promised :'(

Sorry I got really bad writer's block for a really long time. I'll get on that as soon as I'm finished with this one.

This is a collaboration with Oblesikx who asked for a nyo!francexjeanne fic.

Favorites and follows would be fantastic, helpful and positive reviews are treasured!

Thank you for reading

* * *

France hated England.

It wasn't enough that he had taken Gascony from her all those years ago. Now he was leading a siege on Orléans because he was just this close to getting control over upper France.

Please.

As if she was going to give up that easily after the past century.

She was going to beat him into the ground the next time she saw him on the battlefield. Mark. Her. Words. Even if that priss was more concerned with getting his clothes dirty than actually taking her lands.

She would storm into his pretty little command center, watch him shriek like a little girl, yank him up by his perfectly white shirt collar (ruining it with her stained hands), scream profanities at him in French just to watch him struggle to understand, taunt him in French, throw him to the ground, and smush his pretty little face into the ground. Then, after her soldiers had taken care of his guards, she's spit on his face and set fire to his tent. Girls can't fight, son cul (her ass).

Oh yes, the next time she saw him would be glorious.

Then again, she would be hard pressed to get away from her little entourage the Crown Prince had set up for her after the countless times she had snuck out of the castle to join her people on the battlefront. She never even got close enough to smack England and new one; they always saw through her disguise no matter how well she thought she looked passing off as a man.

She was bitterly eating an apple, lounging on her sette languidly, taking up as much space as she possibly could, when Scotland entered. She paused mid-bite and stared at her ally.

He was wearing his usual clothing for wartime; a blue suit with a white cross across his chest. His hair was the same shade as the apple she was eating, she thought distractedly. Then she realized belatedly that she should probably sit up and fix her skirts which had splayed to her mid-calf and even if she was wearing boots, Scotland probably did not want to see that.

"You weren't at the meeting," Scotland said when France pushed herself up into a sitting position- apple trapped in her jaw like a pig roasted for supper -and turned to face him.

Swallowing her bite, she placed the remains of the fruit on the table in front of her. "I was not," she agreed.

"And why not?" Scotland pressed, coming to stand next to her.

She shrugged and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't need to be told yet again that I'm not allowed where my countrymen are fighting for their lives."

"Don't sound so bitter," Scotland chided. "The battlefront isn't a pretty place."

"Do I look like I care if it's a pretty place?" France snapped, standing up to glare hotly at Scotland. "My boys are out there fighting for their lives and I should be right there next to them, should I not?"

"No you shouldn't."

"And yet you are?"

"I'm a man."

France let out an enraged groan and stomped away from Scotland. He followed her, arguing over her noise that she couldn't argue with his logic.

France whipped right around and wrinkled her nose at him. "Yes I can when your logic is stupid."

"My logic is not stupid," Scotland spat back. "Women are weak and fragile. It'd be too much stress on them to wage battle everyday."

France's face pinched as she frowned up at Scotland. She turned around to stare out her window; the one that faced the Northwest, to England. "What would your mother say if she heard you saying that?"

Scotland pushed his shoulders back and his frown tightened. "Please don't bring up my mother."

"What about Gaul, Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Iber-?"*

"Okay- I got it," Scotland snarled. There was a moment of silence before Scotland cleared his throat harshly. "I came to inform you that I'm stepping out with a group to Orléans to bring them fish for Lent."

France turned halfway, her mouth open to ask a question that she already knew the answer to.

"No, you're not going," Scotland said. His voice was softer now, almost sympathetic.

France scowled and crossed her arms across her chest. "You're not going with the intention of fighting. Why can't I-?"

"Because if we do end up fighting and you're killed-"

"I can't be killed, I'm a nation."

Scotland seethed. His hands were curled into fists at his sides. "What if England gets you?" he bit out.

"What if he gets you?" she fired back so she wouldn't have to think too hard on his question.

Scotland smirked down at her. "He won't. I'm much stronger than my baby brother."

Still unhappy about the whole situation, France sighed, her mouth pinched into a frown. "Fine. I don't like it at all. Please be safe. There isn't anyone else who'll go drinking with me. I'd hate to go find a new drinking partner."

Rolling his eyes, Scotland inclines his head towards her. "I will try my best. Don't do anything ridiculous while I'm gone."

"I'm never ridiculous," France said flippantly as she watched Scotland leave.

* * *

"This is ridiculous, Jean."

"I did give you the option of staying at home, Rémy," the blonde said as he struggled to right the pieces of armor he was wearing. "Right, how do I look?" he asked once he was finished, turning to his friend leaning against the wall of the alley they were in.

Rémy frowned at his friend. "Stupid. Jean, seriously. We should just go home."

"No. I've told you before. God told me that-"

"You would be able to save France and stop the war, yeah yeah. But Jean, I really don't see how you got it in your head that God meant for you to dress as a woman to accomplish this."

"Just trust me on this, Rémy. This is what I'm supposed to do."

"Then just go as Jean. Not Jeanne."

"But it won't matter if another man wins a battle against the English. It'd just be luck. But if a woman were to lead the battle and win…" Jean looked expectantly at his friend.

Rémy frowned at Jean. "But you're not a woman."

Jean's head fell back and he stared up at the sky, groaning. "I know, Rémy. But they don't need to know that I'm a man."

Rémy still didn't look convinced. Jean sighed. "Come on, don't you trust me?"

Rémy sighed through his nose. "Yes I trust you, Jean. But I think you're just going to get yourself in a whole heap of trouble."

Jean waved a hand. "No I won't. I'm good at getting out of trouble."

Looking off to the side, lips pinched together, Rémy silently mulled it over. Jean waited expectantly and hopefully. "Fine," Rémy hissed. Jean smiled widely. "But," Rémy said, pointing a finger in Jean's face, "I'm going with you. Just to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

Jean's smile widened. "Thank you Rémy."

Rémy huffed. His critical brown eyes swept over Jean's armor. "Your shoulder is on crooked."

* * *

*ancient civilizations that are female

the title is a song by Blackmore's night (you should totally check it out)


	2. Chapter 2

Being a nation had its perks sometimes. She had an inability to die if she were to live away from her capital like she had during her younger years, and, while she was living in the capital, she had the protection of the guards, and a dependable food source. There were other perks, to be sure, but France could only think of the baser ones as she was forced to endure her least favorite activity of palace life.

Court.

There was always a seat for her, to the right of the king or in this case, the crown prince, if she so deigned to bore herself with court proceedings. France had been avoiding the court because, as she had told Scotland a week or so ago, the most common response to anything she asked was 'no.' But with Scotland gone, there was no one to tell her what was going on in the war. And France would rather sit through court than be oblivious to the war.

Charles of Valois, otherwise known as her Crown Prince or the only one of her bosses to at least half listen to her, kept on glancing over at France during the proceedings. When there was a lull in the flood of people requesting audience with the prince and court, she turned to him.

"Yes?" she asked expectantly.

Charles fidgeted. "Nothing"

She raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

He sighed lightly and shook his head, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at a cluster of nobles in the far corner of the room. France joined him in studying them. "If they ask if you're married, say yes."

"….What?"

"Jacques was asking," Charles muttered, scratching at his neck lightly, "and he wouldn't let it go until I told him your husband was fighting in the war."

"Wouldn't let what go?"

"Courting you."

"He wanted to court me?"

"They all did."

"What do they have a thing for older women?"

Charles leveled an unimpressed look at her. "Françoise, you look like you're nineteen. If I were to tell him that you were alive during the heyday of the Roman Empire, he'd laugh in my face and probably call me crazy while he's at it."

"Still, nineteen is pretty old to be unmarried."

"So's 585."

France scoffed. "I've been married. They just...don't last as long as me."

Charles looked alarmed, "Who?"

Before she could answer, another entourage was announced to see the prince. What caught her attention, was the state of dress within the group. They were poor. What were poor people doing in the court?

A hush fell about the court as the group approached Charles, his advisors, and France. France leaned forward, the heel of her hand facing the group as her fingers cradled her chin, her elbow resting on the arm of her chair. This would be interesting at the very least.

The court was entirely silent as a figure at the front of the group stepped up and addressed the prince. France blinked. It was a girl!

"Prince Charles," she said. Her voice was powerful, rippling across the room and capturing the attention of everyone present. Her hair, light golden tresses, fell about her chin and ears. Her eyes were alight with self confidence and determination. France's hand fell from her face and she stared at the girl. Without knowing quite why, she knew she really wanted her to succeed with whatever she had to say. "I am here on behalf of God."

Well, no surprise, she looked like an angel, pale skin, brilliant green eyes, and smiling lips.

The angel took a deep breath, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "I am here to win this war for France."

 _Oh how nice, winning a war just for me, yes go on ahead. That's perfectly alright,_ France thought. She was startled out of her reverie by a sharp bark-like laugh from one of the prince's many suitors. The man was chuckling down at the girl, who seemed shocked at the reaction from the advisor and then the rest of the court. Even parts of her party looked unsure of themselves as they were laughed at. A boy, who had stood next to the angel, had one hand on his forehead and he was shaking his head, muttering lightly to himself.

"Prince Charles," the advisor said, turning to the prince, who had not laughed as the others hand, "this girl is of no use to us. Send her away from us. We have more pressing matters to be addressing."

"Wait no!" the girl exclaimed. She climbed up the short steps that separated the prince from the rest of the court so that she was now even with the advisor. There was a collective gasp from around the room. She flew to her knees and reached for the prince's hand. "Prince Charles, please. My name is Jeanne d'Arc. God sent me here to end this war in a victory for France. I can do it. God has chosen me to. I will win this war and I will see you crowned king in Reims."

 _Reims?_ The name sent a ripple throughout the crowd. Everyone knew what it meant, but not everyone knew the significance. For France, just hearing the name was enough. She had not seen Reims in years. If Charles was crowned king, there would be no more hiding in Chinon or Vaucouleurs. She whispered the name as though it were a taboo.

Charles looked up to her and then back down to Jeanne. She was still looking up at him, her eyes wide as she pleaded for one chance, just one. "I can end the siege of Orléans. I am the maiden destined to save France. _Please_."

Charles stared down at her, but made no motion to take back his hand. The court was silent. France wasn't sure if she was breathing or not. Then,

"Do you have any formal military training?" a general asked gruffly as he stepped up in front of France and the left of Jeanne.

Jeanne glanced over her shoulder quickly at the general and then back to the king. "Well no, but God has chosen me. I can do it."

The general scoffed and turned away, shaking his head. France glared at him until Charles' soft voice drew her attention back to the two of them. "I would like to speak to my advisors and generals before I make a decision."

Jeanne hurriedly got to her feet, bowed once. "Yes of course, take all the time you need," she said as she bowed again before rejoining her entourage. All at once, the advisors and generals descended upon Charles. They swarmed around his throne, shouting and bickering over each other.

And France didn't like it one bit.

So she stood up and pushed her way between the shouting men until she reached Charles at the center. "Give her a chance," she said. Charles shook his head and touched his ear. He had not heard her. "Give her a chance!" she shouted, almost bellowing over the meaningless chatterings of the generals behind her.

They fell silent and stared at her, but she only stared back at Charles, who looked slightly amused by the whole situation. "You say I should give her a chance, Madam Françoise?"

" _Oui_ ," she said with finality.

Charles smiled. "Very well then."

The advisors around them began to splutter again. "What? You're trusting _her_ judgement over ours?"

"Madam Bonnefoy," Charles said, standing up and staring down the advisors, "has always been an excellent judge of character for as long as I have known her. If she says that Mademoiselle d'Arc has a good chance at succeeding with her endeavours, and is the best choice for France"- here he gave a little wink at France who just shook her head at him, smiling lightly "-then I trust her judgement. And you should too fellows. Mademoiselle," he said as he pushed through the group of men. France followed him smugly.

Jeanne looked up and approached him, but stayed at the bottom of the stairs. She kneeled, her head bent to the ground so her hair fell forward.

"Mademoiselle, I will grant your request." Jeanne looked up, stunned. "Given that you pass a test. If you pass, you will be granted an army to lead to Orléans."

Jeanne seemed at a loss for words. "Th-thank you."

Charles turned away from her looked to France. He motioned to the girl fluidly. "Go on."

France took a deep breath and pushed her shoulders back. She stared at Jeanne, studying her silently. Jeanne met her eyes and her stance. One eyebrow jumped slight, almost as though it was a challenge. France quelled the urge to smirk at the girl. "What did God show you?"

Jeanne breathed deeply and looked up to God for a second before she looked back down. "He showed me ships lining up for battle. There were 204 ships on our side, about 160 ships on theirs. There were two men on our ships, arguing over whether to pull up the anchor. We didn't pull up anchor. God emphasized that. The English arrived. They sent three ships at a time; their archers would shoot at a boat and then the men-in-arms would take siege of the boat.

"There was one man," Jeanne continued, almost breathlessly, but now her eyes were anywhere but France and Charles, "that seemed to wade through the entanglement of bodies as though they were but a field of grass. Oh he killed as he did so, but only if he was attacked. He was looking for someone and continued to search through the waves of people, parting them like a modern day Moses."

Jeanne cleared her throat here. "His clothes were slightly baggy on him, as though he grew rather quickly, but not into the naval uniform he was wearing. He had blond hair peeking out the sides of his chainmail uniform. And enormous eyebrows over dulled green eyes."

As though she had been stabbed, France leaned away from Jeanne, a hand going to her side and resting against the dormant wound from almost a century ago. Yes she remembered this battle, and the wound that spurred her king to keep her away from the fighting from then on. If Jeanne saw that...there was no telling if she had seen the fight between France and England then and if she had seen it, then she could tell that France was-

"God showed him in dark reds and blacks, like the devil. There was a woman standing with us-" here Jeanne paused again and looked to France in delayed curiosity "-she was fighting, but her eyes would scan the horizon line, also looking for someone. Eventually, the man and the woman met up; they had been waiting for each other. The woman spat at his feet and he snarled at her. They started fighting, swords slashing through the air and clanging together in a flurry. His sword caught the edge of her skirts and ripped the hem off. She cut his upper shoulder and he hissed like a cat and jabbed at her stomach, only managing to cut her side. She fell and our soldier surrounded her, protected her, and began ganging up on the man.

"God made it seem as though she had not been back to the battlefield. She...died." Jeanne's eyes flickered to France. "But God told me that I could take her place and win the war and the battle with the man with the huge eyebrows."

The room was silent after Jeanne finished speaking. France really needed to sit down; her head was swimming. Charles was watching her, she knew that, waiting for her input.

"Françoise…?" Charles said softly.

" _Oui_ ," France said distractedly, turning away from the court. " _Ouais, ouais_." She waved a hand over her shoulder as she walked towards her seat. She sat down heavily, staring in no particular direction. Her thoughts effectively drowned out the arguments from the advisors and Charles' defense of her decision. "Take my place," she whispered softly.

She glanced over to Jeanne, standing with a boy from her original train of people. The girl had a big smile on her face as she bounced gently on the balls of her feet in front of the boy. The boy did not look amused as he stared at Jeanne, his head shaking slightly.


	3. Chapter 3

What Jean was doing _could be_ considered sneaking, but he was adamant in his refusal that he was not _sneaking_ , he was only _educating_ himself.

And if in doing that, he was going to places in the faux-palace that might not have welcomed him and Rémy had advised against doing it, then so be it.

He just really needed to talk to that woman.

He needed to know why she was sitting by the Crown Prince like a Queen or Princess would. Why the Crown Prince held her in such high regard that he listened to her rather than his advisors. Why she had decided to listen to him, and then to give the Crown Prince her approval. Why her expression had clouded over when he had spoken of Reims and the man with bushy eyebrows. And most importantly,

Why was she still alive? If he was right, and she was the woman in his vision… then she should have been dead, but she looked barely older than himself. At any rate, she looked much better than she had in his vision; her hair was matted in sweat and blood, but light and fluffy as though she had access to regular baths. She certainly wasn't suffering from a side wound and her dress was very nice and not ripped up and it looked really good on her. It hugged her right around her middle, drew subtle attention to her chest, a full skirt that obscured her lower half, and-

Oh, there she is.

She was standing in the courtyard, facing the pale face of the moon, bathed in the light it gave off, casting a delicate shadow across the flowers and stones. Jean stopped for a moment on the second floor and stared out the window watching her.

She remained still where she was, a slight ruffle in her skirt and cape most likely caused by a breeze passing by. The crown she wore on her head glinted softly in the midst of the night and her curls lightly swayed by her ears. Jean could not see her face and he had a sudden urge to know what expression she was wearing.

When he had reached the first floor, she was still as impassive as before. Jean eased open the door to the courtyard and sucked in a breath when her shoulders tightened. He slipped in and let it shut with a soft bang. At that she turned.

She seemed surprised to find him standing there. "Mademoiselle d'Arc," she said softly, her voice catching on the end of Jean's faux title. The two stared at each other for a few seconds that felt like millenia. Jean could not find it in himself to speak or to even move, caught in her gaze.

She took a step towards him. "Is there something wrong?"

The yes that fell from his mouth was high and squeaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, there is."

"Oh," she said simply as she studied him cautiously. When he didn't say anything, she prompted him with an air of impatience. "What is it?"

"I don't know your name."

She blinked twice in quick succession. "That's it?"

"Yes."

Her mouth frowned slightly, tightening like she had eaten something sour. Jean pushed himself off of the door and approached her cautiously and slowly. "Which name would you like?"

That threw Jean and he paused. "You have more than one name?"

Her eyes sparkled like she was telling him a joke that only she knew. " _Oui_. There's the one everyone calls me. The one my friends call me, and then there's my real name."

They stared at each other for a while, Jean in wonderment, she in amusement. "Your real name, _s'il vous plaît_."

Her eyes smiled and the corners of her mouth slid up marginally. "But how you would you know the difference?"

His mouth dropped open, ready to defend himself, but he could not find any words to refute her argument. But she only smiled bigger, the creases by her eyes wrinkling up, her lips stretched into a gentle curve. He caught himself tracing it with his eyes before snapping back up to her eyes. "I'm only teasing. You may call me Françoise."

"Just Françoise?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.

She hummed her assent. "Anything else, Mademoiselle?"

"Jean," he cut across. At her mildly shocked expression, he cleared his throat. "If I am to call you Françoise, then you may call me Jean."

Françoise cast an appraising glance over his person. "Very well. Is there anything else you need, Jeanne, now that we have cleared the air."

"Just a few questions."

Her mouth twisted into something almost like a smile and a smirk. One eyebrow twitched up slightly. "What would you like to know?"

"Are you-" he blurted before coughing in embarrassment. "Are you related to the Prince?"

"Charles? Oh no no no. We're not related," she said, a laugh woven into her words.

"Then-then why?" he tried again, blushing horribly.

"Then why do I sit next to him?"

"Why did he trust your judgement?"

She looked affronted by the question. "Because he's not an idiot and I know how to make my voice heard."

He felt like they were speaking in riddles and circles and his frustration grew with each passing remark. "Why did you listen to me?"

She flinched away as though he had hit her. "Would you rather I had not listened to you?"

"No, but-"

"Then why are you asking?"

"Because it doesn't make any sense."

"What doesn't make any sense?"

"I'm worth less than the dirt underneath your shoe," Jean exploded breathlessly. "I'm a commoner. I'm-I'm," he fought to find the right word, " _poor_. I have nothing. Why did you-"

"A person's worth is not based on what possessions they do or do not have," Françoise said harshly.

"But why did you listen to me? Everyone else was ready to write me off as a-a- as a silly little girl and not waste one second on me. Why did you change his mind?"

Jean's last words faded out in between them as they stared at each other again. Françoise was not looking at him now, instead she was facing the west. Her expression darkened as the silence eased itself between them. Finally,

"Someone important to me is at Orleans. Actually, many persons." She cast him a sidelong glance. He stared right back at her. She looked back to the west, to Orleans. "He went just before you came. We received word that his party was ambushed just outside of Orleans almost immediately after you were dismissed. He wasn't going to stop it; he was going to help prolong their defiance, I guess. He was bringing food, but I guess the English took it now.

"I just want it to stop," she said, the exhaustion in her voice surprised.

"So he can come home," Jean suggested mildly.

"So they all can," she whispered, eyes sliding shut. Weariness was written all over her face and her shoulders slumped in a defeated posture. But what Jean found most interesting was the age that showed in her expression.

The courtyard was bathed in a midnight chill and breeze and Françoise sighed. "I am tired," she looked at him, "Jeanne. I am going to sleep. Feel free to wander if you need."

With that she breezed past him, leaving him in her wake, following her with his eyes, wondering what he was missing.

* * *

France leaned up against the door after she shut it. She let her head fall back with a slight thump. If England was not above attacking an envoy that had Scotland, his own brother, in it to get Orleans, what would make him stop? And just what could Jeanne do that would stop him?

* * *

S'il vous plaît- please

Jean/Jeanne- pronounced the same (Jean uses his name spelled masculinely, but France uses the feminine version)

SO this just after the Battle of the Herrings and France is describing the defeat at Rouvray which "was disastrous for French morale."


	4. Chapter 4

Charles, irritated by her newfound ill humor, had told her to 'take a walk' between cases that morning and with just as much irritation that he had, France stomped out of the court and out on to the grounds.

Take a walk, bah.

She'd take a walk alright, all the way to Orléans. Even if she was "delicate" and "very important" and "you already tried to prove yourself capable, and you almost got yourself killed."

She'd show him. If he was letting Jeanne go, then certainly she should be able to go and face her defeat with dignity and kick England between the legs while she was at it. What was the big difference between a country girl and a slightly older embodiment of the French government that also happened to be female? That's right _nothing_.

She kicked at the frozen ground and stubbed her toe.

Stupid ground. Stupid winter, Stupid war, Stupid soldiers. Stupid _reinforcements_. Stupid pretty girls that were only fooling themselves about being able to save France because France was going to fall sooner or-

"I for one think this is ridiculous."

-later…

France frowned and turned towards the voice. A buff soldier was reclining against the barracks, talking to one of the stable boys. He had huge arms and were crossed over his chest and bared to nippy wind of mid-November. The stable boy next to him was thin as a twig compared to the man, but he nodded along with whatever was spewing out of the buff man's mouth.

"The only reason I am even here," he continued, oblivious to his new eavesdropper, "is because they give me food and I'm going to lead the expedition to to Orléans."

That's two reasons, France thought as she swept over to the pair gracefully. She forced a coquettish giggle and bat her eyes up at the hulking man. " _Excusez-moi,_ monsieur, did I hear you say you were leading the expedition to Orléans?"

The man seemed overjoyed to have wrangled her attention and he pushed himself off of the side of the building and dusted his pants off as he smiled triumphantly at her. "I did say that, Mam'selle _._ "

France blinked up at him once. "Well, are you?"

"Well somebody has to and I'm just the man for the job, don't you think?"

Typical. "Of course you are, but I thought that Mam'selle d'Arc was-"

She was cut off by his boisterous laugh which stunned her into silence. "As if that _girl_ could do anything for the good of France. Ha!"

France did not bother to hide her shock. "B-but her vision-"

"Vision, smidgen," he cut across again, "anyone can make stuff like that up. And none of those pansies in court have been to battle, so they wouldn't know the difference. Besides, she'd just be distracted by all of the good-looking men around her, like me."

France forced a light chuckle. "Yes it seems hard to focus with so many distractions. I couldn't do it. If you'll excuse me, messieurs."

France swayed easily back to the palace for as long as she felt the man's eyes on her. Once they fell away, she marched furiously into the palace and stormed past the open court doors and up to her suite. A maid was in her room, cleaning the bedding, and was startled by France's aggressive entrance.

France stared at her for a moment before saying with an air of impatience, "Fetch Mademoiselle d'Arc and bring her here. I wish to speak to her."

The maid nodded and bowed out of the room.

* * *

Jean felt his heart stutter in his chest when he was approached by the maid and instructed to follow her to Françoise's chambers. By the time he- and Rémy- were outside of the doors, he was tempted to turn tail and run.

The doors to her room stood tall and imposing as Jean fretted over why she would have called him here, out of the court's eye. Did she..figure it out?

Rémy was standing next to him, eyes flickering between Jean and the door before impatiently stepping forward and knocking loudly on the door. Jean flinched at the echoing noise.

" _Enterer_."

Jean pulls himself together enough to lean forward to grasp the door handle and ease the door open enough for him and Rémy to enter.

Françoise was relaxing regally on a sette, a wine glass in her hand, the red of the wine catches the light off of the candles closest to her. Her expression is relaxed. Not irritated or infuriated or malicious, or any other emotion one would feel knowing that a boy had dressed as a girl to try to free France.

Jean was still petrified.

Somehow he managed to sit down, staggering slightly as he stepped on the hem of his dress as his clumsy feet moved him to the other seat in the room, Rémy standing behind him. Jean absently smoothed the fabric of his dress and tried not to look as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Françoise took a sip of her wine. "So, Jeanne-"

"I'm sorry."

She blinked.

" _Jean_ ," Rémy hissed through his teeth.

"I beg your pardon. Sorry? Sorry for what?"

Jean paused. Surely she wasn't going to play this game with him? If she knew then she probably would have-

"For being late, Madam," Rémy said smoothly as Jean floundered for words.

Françoise opened her mouth but closed it soon after. She looked to the side, as though reminding herself of something. She looked up and expelled a breath up at her bangs, letting them lift and fall in the stream. She sighed and smiled crookedly at them and shrugged one shoulder. "It's fine. I wasn't waiting that long. So, Jeanne, I was talking a walk today by the stables. I stumbled upon some your reinforcements talking outside of the stable. I could probably point the man out, but I never got his name. But he seemed conflicted about your ability to lead the forces."

Françoise paused and lifted her eyebrows at Jean as she sipped her wine. "Well? Some sort of comment, please."

"Um-"

"The way I see it, Jeanne," Françoise continued as though Jean was not speaking, "is that you have won over the minds of the court, but your soldiers are not fully behind you."

"I should do something about that," Jean forced himself to say.

Françoise smiled over the rim of her wine glass, the ends of her eyes crinkling up in faint laughing lines. "Yes you should."

"What should I do?"

"That's entirely up to you, Mademoiselle," Françoise said, still with her coy little smile that made Jean's heart go ba-bump. "But I do hope it's something entertaining and fitting the savior of France."

* * *

ahaha that took way too long and it's way too short i'm sorry i've had this sitting on my drive and now if finally have an opportunity to upload it


	5. Chapter 5

The last of the reinforcements arrived in the last week of February. Jean, as he stood watching over them with Rémy at his side, felt a thrill of excitement at seeing them. This was actually happening. They were going to do it.

Rémy nudged him lightly and whispered, "Achille is staring at you again."

Jean looked to where Rémy was staring. Achille, the hulking brute of a man that Françoise had pointed out, was indeed glaring at Jean as though he wanted to vaporize him on the spot. Jean only smiled widely and fluttered his fingers in a wave when the two made eye contact.

This seemed to tick Achille off even more, but he only turned back to his work, ears reddening.

Jean chuckled lowly as he turned back to supervise his army- his army. The one after his display a month or so ago had only spoken of him in reverent tones- and well, female pronouns, but that's just par for the course anyway.

A week had passed between the time that Françoise had pointed Achille out and when Jean finally did something about it. He'd been thinking of what he should do to prove that he was good enough to lead the army to free France, but nothing came to mind. The fight itself was an accident. Achille was running his mouth again, this time to a bigger crowd, while Jean was close enough to hear. The result had been Jean standing in the middle of the crowd, sporting a few bruises- as Achille wasn't going to hit a 'girl' with as much strength as a boy, how considerate- and Achille, humiliated and thoroughly thrashed, slinking away to nurse his wounds.

The rumors had started circulating soon after and all Jean did was smile whenever someone brought it up- a coy and somewhat devilish smile.

Since then he had virtually no trouble with his troops and once the new reinforcements arrived, they would set out for Orleans.

Jean was excited. Sure he was, that's what he was here for, that's what God had wanted him to do. But a part of him balked at leaving the faux castle so easily. Which was understandable; on the battlefront full meals, a comfy bed, and water in which to bathe would be scarce. And even though as a peasant he had lived through the worst of it, after almost half a year of pampering at the castle the return to a familiar environment would be harsh. Which would be just as well as that's where he would go once he ended the war.

Rémy nudged him again, but this time he said nothing and only nodded his chin towards the doors of the building they were in. Jean grinned when he saw the elegant figure outlined by the dust. He hopped down from the ledge where they had been standing and slowly made his way over. He had attracted a few stares because of his unladylike descent (a few that chanced a look up his dress), but he ignored them.

Françoise smiled and made to embrace him but stopped short. "You're covered in dirt and dust, Mademoiselle."

Jean felt sheepish and stared down at the dust that had collected on his arms and apron. "I was...helping," he grinned harder when Françoise laughed.

"That is good. A good leader always helps in anyway they can." Her eyes swept over the encampment. "Your forces are gaining traction," she commented. "When do you suppose you'll leave?"

Jean was shaken out of his reverie at her question. He had been watching her eyes and thinking about the color and how rich and warm they were. Grapes, he had decided, were the closest in color to her eyes. "Hmm?"

She laughed. "I said, Mamselle, when do you suppose you'll leave for Orleans?"

Orleans? Oh. "Soon."

She nodded. "Soon, that is best. Would you mind terribly about carrying a message for me?"

A message? For who? Was it that man who had gone to Orleans before Jean had shown up? The thought left a sour feeling in his belly. He shook it off. She was his superior, without her none of this would have happened. He owed it to her to carry a meager message compared to how much she had done for him. "Of course not."

She produced a letter and held it out to him. "Give this to a man called Allistor. He is with the Scots."

He took the letter. "Is he your special person, mamselle?"

"He is special to me, yes."

"Is he the Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

Françoise's eyes widened quickly following his statement and then she burst into laughter, tilting her head back so the smooth plane of her neck was visible. "Oh goodness, no!"

"But you said-?"

"Yes I know what I said. He is like a brother to me, I have known him a long time. Monsieur Bonnefoy will never exist I'm afraid."

"Why not?"

Françoise stared at Jean for a moment. "Bonnefoy is my maiden name."

"But I thought you were married? The Prince-"

"Been talking to the Prince about my marital status, have you? Big topic of interest with the two of you?" Françoise said, obviously trying to mute her laughter. Jean flushed red. Françoise laughed harder. "No no no, Charles is just very protective and he spun that lie to get the courtiers off of my back about marriage."

"Do you not want to marry, Ma-...?"

"Françoise; I thought we agreed to use our first names, Jeanne."

"-Françoise?"

She shrugged. "When you get as old as I am, marriage seems futile."

"Madam, you are not yet twenty."

"Right," she said, nodding lightly.

"I am older than you."

"Sure you are. I also heard a rumor from your little buddy over there-" she waved to Rémy "-that you wiggled your own way out of marriage a few years ago."

He was going to have to remind Rémy not to talk about him behind his back.

Françoise smiled once more his way and then pointed to the envelope he still held. "Allistor Kirkland, Scottish ranks."

"I'll remember."

"Merci," she smiled and leaned forward and kissed his cheek quick as a snake. Then she was gone.

Jean ambled back to Rémy, his cheek still tingling with a hysterical expression on his face as Rémy burst into laughter. Jean didn't care. He let a dopey smile overtake his face- which sent Rémy off again, but whatever.

It was going to be good.

* * *

France had her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, where she could feel each breath she took. If she could be grounded in her present- since she was a huge entity not unlike a god and hence she could be anywhere at anytime- then she could block out the whispers of her people; the loudest of them being those in Orleans.

She watched the last of the carriages as they were loaded and prepped for the army's excursion tomorrow.

 _"-Veuillez protéger mon papa alors qu'il est en guerre-"_

There was a little light from the soldiers' barracks. She wondered if some, even if their light was out, if some were resting on their backs, staring up and thinking about home and family.

 _"-quelque chose, veuillez-"_

She thought about taking a walk- the cold air would draw most of her attention back to Chinon and not in the dusty streets of Orleans where her people were sitting huddled, waiting and hoping desperately that they had not been abandoned.

 _"-et ma maman et le bébé-"_

She shouldn't, she finally decided. There were too many people out there. She didn't know who she'd meet in the middle of the night.

 _"-il n'y a pas plus de nourriture-"_

Though, the last time she had met Jeanne, so it wasn't that unpleasant.

 _"-et de Yves, même si il a jeté la saleté à moi-"_

Where was she? She had been at supper for only a few minutes.

 _"-l'anglais sont si proches-"_

She was almost untouchable now that things were picking up, France reflected. That was a disappointing thought. France had a hard time making friends being immortal and such. And the thought of losing Mademoiselle d'Arc was bitter but not unexpected.

 _"-, mais c'est très bien,-"_

Mortality, it seemed, was a blessing denied to few.

 _"-nous ne pouvons pas faire ceci plus-"_

Had it been Marguerite? or Blanche that told her that God had only chosen the strong to live forever as she did. Regular mortals did not have the capacity to watch those around them die and be replaced like she was forced to.

 _"-j'ai jeté plus de nouveau vers lui-"_

It must have been Marguerite. It had been a week after Blanche, her mother-in-law, had been laid to rest that she found her outside in the courtyard. Those had been her words of comfort.

 _"-veuillez."_

France turned her head to stare at her traveling cloak that she had pulled out just after she retired to her chambers. "Don't do anything ridiculous," Scotland had said.

 _"-maman dit-"_

"It's not ridiculous,' France said to herself, turning away from the window. "It's...helping." Her hand ran down the fine cloth of her cloak. "A good leader helps in anyway they can."

* * *

ok so my french is abysmal on the best days so if any lovely reader who knows French better than i do notices an issue with it, please leave it in a review or a comment and I will make that correction shortly.

I used SDL translate for the french (which is pretty on par with its spanish translation so i figured it should have the same results) and the translation are asl follows (its meant to be a mother and a child during their evening prayers):

please protect my daddy while he's at war

something, please

and my mom and the baby

there's no more food

and Yves even if he threw dirt at me

the English are so close

but that's okay

we can't do this anymore

i threw more back at him

please

mommy says-


	6. Chapter 6

Scotland was sharpening his sword when he received word of the French reinforcements approaching. He stopped spinning the whetstone and flicked his thumb across the edge and drew his finger back as it cut on the edge. Perfect.

The small scrape was healed by the time he had stood and replaced his sword into its sheath. He stood as second command to his general as the French arrived.

They were...well, soldiers at the very least.

At their head was a scrawny-

There was a girl leading them.

Hmph. That's new.

The revelation that it was a girl at the front where normally the general would ride whispered through his ranks, but none were so foolish as to raise their voice any higher than the soft whisper they were already speaking in.

The woman dismounted, her second in command holding her horse's reins. She approached his general, as though she had no fear.

"Bonjour," she greeted, giving a half-attempted curtsy and reached into a pocket of her dress. "Je m'appelle Joan d'Arc."

His general turned to him. He was the translator between the two parties, designated because of his closeness to France and the eventual pick up of her language coupled with well, it's his own bloody language.

"This is Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Arc, General."

"Where is the other general?"

"Mademoiselle, où est votre général?"

"Je suis."

"She says that she is."

"Preposterous. Let us have some proof."

"Mademoiselle, avez-vous une preuve à votre demande?"

She pulled a letter out of her pocket and Scotland caught a swirl on the end of a letter before the woman handed it over to his general. "Voilà de Madam Bonnefoy. Il est pour Allistor Kirkland. Un Scot."

His general turned and handed him the letter. He opened it and was met with France's beautiful calligraphy.

 _Allistor_ , it read, _don't be too harsh on Jeanne, she is special to me. She's going to save France don't you know. Oui it is nice to have a savior, non? Ah anyway, she is what she says she is. My Prince gave her the right to amass this army and to aide you in your quest. Bonne chance!_

 _There is another letter in here, please make sure that it gets to your darling brother. Hugs and kisses, come home soon._

 _Françoise B._

He looked to his general and nodded. "This is a letter from Madam Bonnefoy, she is as she said."

His general did not think much of that statement. "They are _French_ , sir," he tried again.

That got his general laughing. "Tell her to let her men set up camp."

"Mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head toward his men's camp. "Suis moi."

* * *

Some time later- after helping the French get settled, Scotland was sitting by his men as they talk about tomorrow and how they will show those rotten English what for when he felt it. He tensed automatically and turned his head ever so slightly. He would know if it was England- he'd spent enough time around him to know, but this was different.

It was a familiar different though, something he hadn't felt in a long time.

It was definitely a female country- the feeling was powerful but also gentle with something that was inherently... _French_.

He turned abruptly.

She stood at the edge of the camp, a cloak on and a sword on her hip. Her hood was up so he couldn't see her expression, but he was sure it was smug.

He stood and approached her, feeling anger course through his very being. She should not be here. She should be back with her Prince where she could be protected. She did not belong on a battlefield.

When he was within an inch of her space, she tilted her head up, letting her hood fall. She was smirking at him. "How did you get here?" he demanded in English because for all she paraded about, she knew English.

"Well, the castle," she answered in French, "was missing it's head hunting dog, so I slipped out easy."

"Hunting dog?"

"Um, you? You were the only one who stopped me from getting farther than the city's outskirts. So I figured, that I might as well come and see my own defeat in person rather than hear about it."

That made him pause. "You hold a very different opinion than your champion," he pointed out.

Her cheeks warmed. "She did get here alright, then? Your general didn't give her too much trouble?"

"He doesn't know a lick of French."

She raised an eyebrow. He sighed. "He couldn't directly insult her. Don't worry, every little whim she has is tended to by that little lackey of hers."

"Rémy," she said, shrugging. "That's his name. He and Jeanne are best friends. He has the best stories of Jeanne as a little girl." Her smile was dreamy as she stared off.

Scotland stared at her unimpressed a few moments before snapping his fingers in front of her face. "Stop that."

She glared at him. "Stop what?"

"Being so...girly. You can't tell me that you are falling in love in the middle of war."

She blinked at him. "It's never a bad time to fall in love, Scotland. And no I'm not."

"Uh-huh," he said, letting every feeling of disbelief and frustration drip off from his tone. "That's obviously why you're head-over-heels for this Rémy."

"Rémy?" she asked, as though she didn't know what he had to do with the conversation. She pinked and looked as though she were going to be sick. "Oh," she whispered.

She looked scared. "France?"

She waved a hand to him as though to disperse the conversation. "Nothing, Scotland. I'm okay."

"You don't-"

"I'm just hungry," she said hurriedly. "I haven't eaten since dinner a few nights ago."

He was going to continue to argue, but the look on her face made him pause. He sighed and let his head fall back. "C'mon, I can find some firecake or something for you."

She twisted the cuffs on her shirt, "Could I stay with the Scots, tonight?"

"Why don't you want to be with your own?" he asked, turning back. She was white, completely white and she looked as though she were fighting for words.

"I just…" she took a deep breath in, "I need to- it's harder to focus when everyone is speaking French and at least the ugly English will be a distraction."

"A distraction from what?"

Her eyes were flickering from side to side before, "Tomorrow? I'll just work myself up thinking about who will die tomorrow. It's a feeling I'm not looking forward too."

He knew it wasn't the real reason, but he let her keep her secrets. "Okay, come on, aren't you hungry?"

"Did you get my letter to your brother?" she asked softly, deepening her voice as they walked through the camp to where Scotland's men were just finishing their meal.

"No, not yet."

She nodded. "Before we fight, don't you think?"

He nodded. He approached his men as France stayed back. "Buck up lads, got another share."

A few groaned, but the one who had mostly full firecake, broke off a third and handed it to Scotland. Most followed suit and he eventually had enough pieces to make a full firecake. He returned to France and handed her the meal. "Go on, eat. I've already had dinner."

She took it with a smile.

Scotland watched her eat. "Y'know," he said with an air of casualty, "if you really want to hide from this Rémy boy, you should probably get some breeches so you blend in better. Even if you don't have red hair."

Her smile was tight and her eyes sad and she nodded. "That would be nice, thank you Allistor."

* * *

"Jean, you okay?"

Jean looked up from where he had been staring at the fire. There was a purple residue when he turned to look at Rémy and he had to blink a few times to get rid of it. "Yeah."

"You're not worried at all?" Rémy asked in a voice that just _oozed_ disbelief.

Jean shrugged though his stomach churned and spun. He had been barely able to eat the firecake without an excess of difficulty- which he had made the joke that it was because he was used to the fine foods from the castle (which had ultimately resulted in him thinking of Françoise and the high possibility of never seeing her again). "I mean, of course I am. What if they just stop listening to me or we don't succeed." They being his men.

"But God will help," Rémy insisted, leaning forward to tilt Jean's head up. "You said so yourself. God has a plan and you alone are the one who can execute it."

Jean nodded. "Yes, but what if his plan is for me to fall and an actual girl to take my place? What if- you know that vision I had?"

"Yes..."

"The other woman I told the Prince about, you know?"

"I was there."

"Well, call me crazy, but I don't think she died."

Rémy did look as though he were about to call him insane. "Jean, the war started a hundred years ago. She couldn't still be alive."

"But what if that was God? What if he became a human girl and his immortality was discovered. What if he laid low for a couple years before reappearing when he sent me the vision. What if he became that girl again and stood by the Prince's side to aid in my journey. What if he's using me to get back to the battlefield and fight?"

"Jean, that's insane."

"But what _if_. No man knows what God's plan is."

"But you do."

"Not _really_ , I only know _my_ part, what if there are more parts?" Rémy looked unimpressed and slightly concerned. "Okay, listen to me; what if Madam Bonnefoy is actually God?"

Rémy's mouth fell open. "Jean? Are you sure you're okay?"

"She looks exactly like the woman in my vision- except for the woman was haggard and wounded. And she claims no relation to the Prince-"

"Jean-"

"And she once told me that she has many names that many other people call her by." Jean seized fistfuls of his hair, questioning himself as to why he hadn't seen it sooner. In his excitement, he hadn't noticed that he was standing until Rémy stood and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Jean! You are unwell."

"No I'm not," he muttered, the previous moments excitement had made way for dejection and exhaustion. "I'm really not Rémy."

"Jean," Rémy said, sounding a lot like his mother when she would scold the two of them for mucking up their pants. Jean slid back down to the ground, his skirt poofing up and hiking up to expose his stockings. At least Rémy was the only one there. "I think that you should go sleep this fit of yours off. Obviously it's because of a lack of sleep or stress from traveling."

He still didn't think it was. There was a cold feeling in his stomach. "I like her."

"What?"

"Madam Bonnefoy, Françoise, God, whichever name. I was such an idiot."

Rémy sighed again. "Jean, Madam Bonnefoy is _not_ God. You're just tired and stressed. Go lay down, I'll make your excuses."

He really hoped Rémy was right, but even if he was, there was no way that any of this simple attraction could end well. If she wasn't God, then she was a noblewoman and still so unattainable. "Okay," he mumbled, feeling close to crying.

Rémy noticed (because Rémy noticed everything and he knew all). He sighed and kneeled next to Jean and pulled the latter into his arms. Jean gasped a little and hugged his friend back just as tightly. _God, please don't take him from me tomorrow,_ Jean prayed as he held on, eyes shut tight, _I can't do this without him._

"You're going to be great," Rémy whispered after a moment. "You're going to be fantastic, Jean. You've gotten this far, don't give up now. You'll win this war for France, won't you Jean? There's nothing you need to worry about. God will protect you."

Jean hung on tighter. _I'm more concerned with him protecting you,_ he thought.


	7. Chapter 7

He was fighting. That was all. He ignored the blood on his...well everything and continued to fight back; for France, for Orleans, for the Prince, for Rémy, for his parents, for Françoise.

He felt something like dread settle in his stomach and he turned just in time to catch a blade that was swung at him in the hilt of his sword. The man was tall and lanky and wore very little armor. From Jean's own helmet, he couldn't clearly see what the man looked like.

The man sneered at him and spoke loudly in English as their swords clashed. He ignored it.

He managed to get a cut on the man's arm. Surprised, the man stepped back. Jean kept his guard up, breathing hard. _That's what you get for not wearing armor,_ he thought triumphantly.

The man looked up to him and frowned, the men surrounding them glancing occasionally as they only stared at each other. Jean was impatient- the wound was small, you could barely see it _as it closed up in front of his very own eyes._

He almost screamed. He felt sick. That's not normal. "What the Hell?" he exclaimed as all blood vanished from the man's arm.

The man flinched up to stare at him. "France?"

Jean didn't know how to respond to that, but when the man took a step forward, he raised his sword and backed away.

The man frowned. He shouted, "Who are you?" His French was less than perfect and was marred by that ridiculous accent of his.

"I am Jeanne d'Arc, the saviour of France!" he screamed, the noise ripping from his throat. The few French soldiers around him cheered at his exclamation and pushed back with a newfound vigor. "Who are you?" Fear shook his voice, but he reflected in the space it took the man to respond, that it was slightly absurd for the two of them to have this conversation, but the other man seemed obscenely stubborn to have this conversation.

The man sneered and gave a slightly mocking bow. "I am the General Kirkland. The one to whom you sent that letter. I didn't know your English was that good."

"I don't know English- it is a barbaric and disgusting. And I would never send anyone a letter in that language or to any _Englishman_ ," he spat back.

This seemed to surprise the man and he looked aside for a few seconds, his mouth moving but nothing reached Jean. When his head snapped back to him, Jean jumped in place, sword up to match any blow from the man. "Where is she then? I know she's here. I assumed she was you," he said the last word as though it were an insult. "But I know you couldn't be. You're too...mortal. Where is she?"

"Who?" Jean demanded, anxiety shaking his hands and nerves. He needed to do something and the fact that he wasn't was driving him insane.

"France!" he demanded.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"France!"

"Stop saying my country's name!"

"I'm looking for her- where is she?"

"Who?"

"France! Or whatever name she goes by with her people."

He had to swallow hard against the fear and apprehension that rose up in his throat, almost preventing him from speaking.

The man sighed as though he couldn't believe that Jean was so incompetent, but Jean was silently hoping that this man was insane. "She's got brown hair and wears a stupid crown. Her eyes are like purple or something. She's probably close to that faux king or prince or whatever."

"Prince Charles?"

"Yeah sure. Where is she?" he snapped.

Jean was shaking violently and it was taking all of his strength to not turn tail and run- where he wasn't sure, just far enough away that there were any people who referred to Madam Bonnefoy as France or suddenly healed up without attention from any medical officer. The logic behind this encounter was making his head hurt trying to figure it out. "Not here? I know no one of that description."

His sword was a blur, but Jean caught it again, but the other was still pressing down on him and his knees were starting to buckle. "You lie," the man spat, his face finally close enough for Jean to recognize him through his helmet.

His heart stopped and he felt cold, ice cold fear wash through him. Though he could no longer feel his arms through the fear, he managed to push back and force the man to step back.

He'd seen this man kill thousands as though their lives held no consequence to him. What was to say that he couldn't easily do the same to Jean. Either he was a madman or...

 _Think about it,_ his mind whispered as he swung again at the man, _if Madam Bonnefoy is God, then who fights against God?_

" _Diable_ ," he whispered. The man frowned at him, but did not slow in his attack. "You're the Devil," he shouted louder.

The man laughed. His laugh was rough and scratchy and just this shy of insane. _"Now_ you sound like France." In a few swift moves, infused with strength that Jean had never known, the man managed to disarm him and have the tip of his straight sword pointed at his throat.

 _So this is how I die_ , Jean thought, watching the green eyes across from him, but neither moved. Jean was strangely at peace; he had fought with God, listened to his commands, and even went up against the very foe that God had thrown from the pearly gates of Heaven himself. He could die now.

The Devil had other ideas, it seemed. Instead he reached and grabbed Jean's arm, tugging the armored attempted Savior to his side and exchanged his sword for a dagger he pressed to Jean's side.

"You're coming with me," he hissed in Jean's ear. "Say anything, try to escape-" The dagger was pressed harder against the unprotected skin on his side "-and I'll have no problem stabbing you and leaving you to bleed out."

 _Je peux mourir maintenant_

The thought was so sudden France almost lost her breath as she watched her army fight against England's. She sucked in a frigidly cold and nauseating breath and tried to focus back again. There was fear and anger and apparently acceptance from her soldiers. There was elation from some in Orleans, fear of English aggression after the siege failed. There were the normal emotions from the lesser war-affected places.

* * *

 _J'ai fait tous Dieu m'a demandé_

She knew who is was and her terror grew. "Jeanne," she whispered lightly. Scotland next to her turned.

"France?"

"Jeanne- something is wrong with her. She just thought that she was ready to die and oh-"

 _J'ai combattu le diable et je suis toujours vivant_

Her mouth worked silently for a moment as Scotland stared at her. "She says she has fought with the Devil- I don't understand."

 _Où est-ce qu'il fait de moi? Que veut-il?_

"Someone's taking her somewhere," she said as she pushed herself up in the horse's saddle, trying to scan the forces for her. "I can't see her," she whined angrily. "Do you?"

"I feel my brother," he said.

She stilled. "Where?"

"You can't?"

"I think you're throwing me off with your presence."

"He was on the battlefield, but now he's too far away to be fighting still. Are you sure that Jeanne is who is speaking in your head."

"Of course, how could I not know for certain." She had spent enough time with Jeanne over the few months they both stayed with Charles. She should know what her thoughts were- she knew her voice and it did sound a little different in her head, but that's to be expected. Blanche had sounded different, too.

"Why can you hear her? Could you do that before?"

" _No_. I'm not sure, but I think she's thinking about me while she's thinking this so I can hear it. You know how that works."

Scotland shook his head. "No I don't. I'm not all that close to any mortals."

The sheer amount of judgement in his tone made her bristle and settled a sick feeling in her stomach. She scowled at him. "I can't hear her anymore."

Scotland rolled his eyes. "Good. I think _her_ thoughts are supposed to stay in _her_ head, not yours."

"She hasn't died," France continued as though Scotland had not spoken. "So I don't know what it-"

"France, just drop it."

She still worried about it as they remained in their position. A runner came breathless to Scotland's side and panted out a message that made Scotland's brow furrow in confusion. He nodded at the boy and waved him off. He just shrugged at her when she cast a questioning look his way.

* * *

The messenger returned to the tent after what seemed an eternity. Jean was getting tired of being in this damn chair. At least the Devil hadn't tied him up or anything, then he'd just beg for death, because he wasn't going to blab about French plans or anything.

The Devil was treating him as though he were a true General that was comforting. The Devil looked up as the boy appeared and nodded at him. The boy said something softly but with confidence that made The Devil groan and bury his head in his hands. He muttered something into his hands and the boy responded indignantly. The Devil dropped his hands and said something else before nodding to Jean, who just stared back as impassively as before. The Devil said something curt and short to the boy and then he dismissed him.

They were silent for a few more minutes before Jean piped up. " _Diable-_?"

"I have told you not to call me that. My name is Arthur."

Yeah okay, sure. " _Diable_?"

"What do you want, you infuriating French _tosser_?"

"What did you tell that boy?"

The Devil only shrugged plaintively. "Nothing more than to tell France that I have you _and_ Orleans and that she should stop this fight."

"You are very stubborn in that France is actually a person."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not expecting you to understand suddenly. But there is France and then there is France. One is land, the other is a person."

"Okay~"

"Oh don't just act like a child about it. We live in two different worlds the two of us. You'd be hard pressed to understand it."

"I'm sure, Monsieur _Diable_."

"Quit calling me that," he shouted, slamming his hand down and finally looking up from the map on his desk.

"What? Your name?"

"My name is Arthur and that is close to the fifteenth time I have told you that today, Mademoiselle."

"Well, I mean if I were named something like _Diable_ , then I would definitely want another name. But you are Monsieur _Diable_."

"I am not the Devil! I am Arthur!"

"I would have gone with Jean for a name in place of _Diable_ ," Jean said, biting back a smirk. "Or John since you're pretending to be English now, Monsieur _Diable._ "

The glare sent his way wasn't as entertaining as the eyebrows residing above them so Jean completely ignored the former. "Silence unless you'd like to get up close and personal with my blade, Mademoiselle."


	8. Chapter 8

"I have a message for Ms. France," a voice said as the same messenger from before approached her and Scotland. She beckoned him near, ignoring the tense line of Scotland's shoulders. "General Kirkland wishes Ms, France to know that he has custody of General d'Arc and that-"

The rest of his message faded out as France stiffened and turned her head to stare at the English encampments across the battlefield.

"Take me to him," she said when she registered the still silence from the boy at her side.

Scotland's hand shot out and caught her wrist. "France," he said, voice tight with a warning.

France glared at him and jerked her wrist, trying to throw off the hold. When he didn't, she frowned harder and bored her eyes right back into his.

"She's just a girl, we can't let him get you," Scotland reasoned. And it made sense, why risk the safety of a whole nation over just one life?

She grabbed his thumb, pulling it back and he was forced to let go of her wrist. "Not just any girl," she said as she pulled farther away. She made for her horse, ignoring the dumbfounded look on Scotland's face. She turned to look at the messenger, a scrap of a boy in a tattered English uniform. "Take me to your General."

He nodded and scurried off as she flicked the reins of her horse and followed.

In a story, this would the point where the hero would ride off to save the damsel and they would both return, the damsel on the back of his horse as he brought her to safety, the evil finally defeated.

"France!" Scotland yelled.

But this wasn't a story

* * *

"Can I have my sword back?"

The Devil gave him a Look and Jean stared back with widened eyes. "Why would I do such a thing?" The Devil asked with an air of impatience and resignation.

So I can kick your ass. "Because it's a family heirloom."

"You're not going to live long enough to use it."

"I think you would have killed me by now if you intended to kill me," Jean pointed out.

The Devil approached him, leaning over him, a sneer on his lips. "You're just bait. As soon as France gets here, you don't matter anymore."

Jean rolled his eyes. Not this France crap again. "Okay, yeah sure, Diable. France is on his way, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

The man's face screwed up in anger and he groaned in frustration and turned away from Jean and kicked the other chair. "You," he said, turning around and pointing a finger at Jean, "are infuriating."

There was a silence only punctuated by The Devil's heaving breathes. "And besides," he spat, "France is a girl."

"Is England also a girl?"

The Devil turned around, almost as though he was offended. "Do I look like a girl?"

Oh right, he claimed to be a sentient being that represented the islands across the Channel. Jean shrugged.

The Devil growled again and folded his hands into fists, but refrained from punching Jean. "What is taking that girl so long?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"You know if you want to punch me, you should just do it. I can take it."

The Devil tossed him an incredulous look. "As if France would ever accept my terms if you are anything less than stellar when she comes to retrieve you, and come she will."

Jean frowned at the crazy look in the man's eyes and angled his body away from him. There was a clamor outside of the tent, a distinct sound of a horse coming to a stop outside of the tent and The Devil stood up straighter and seemed to have a mental war with himself before he stepped outside of the tent with a grand flourish.

Jean stared after him for a moment until he heard his voice ringing out with cheer. Probably a messenger from the battlefield bringing news of French defeat, Jean thought blithely as he reached under his clothes for the knife that Rémy had suggested hiding there. He unclasped it from the holster, but noticed the tent flap moving out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his hand out from under his clothes, hooking his knee to catch the blade before it could fall to the ground.

The tent door opened just as grandly as The Devil had exited. The Devil entered, grinning smugly, a grand gesture thrown towards Jean- who frowned reflexively at the man, not wanting to be a sideshow to any messenger that had come.

Except it wasn't a messenger that followed The Devil in. It was-

"Françoise?" Jean spluttered as the woman entered. She was wearing breeches- Jean snapped his eyes up immediately, a blush staining his cheeks- and a large cotton shirt- though she still has her purple cape. Her hair was messily done, not in the intricate braids that it had been in at the castle, but instead tied tightly against her head in fashion many of the Scottish men had theirs. She wore no armor and what was it with people and not wearing armor in the middle of a battle? Her violet eyes were blazing as she scanned the tent, finally settling on Jean.

When their eyes met, Jean couldn't breathe for a second. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be back with Prince Charles.

Françoise turned suddenly back to The Devil with a deep frown. "Is she okay?"

The Devil grinned cheekily. "I laid no hands on her. Don't fret, Franny."

* * *

A/N, I'm sorry this is so late (I cringe when I think about the last time this was updated)

Also if someone ever has a hold on you, if you grab their thumb they have to let go (what France did to Scotland)


	9. Chapter 9

Jeanne sat still in the chair- untethered just as England had promised. She had no obvious marks and only looked shocked to see her standing there. Which was just as well, she was supposed to be back at the palace with Charles now.

England had continued his infuriating walk over to his desk, strutting about like a peacock. He grandiosely plucked a letter from the piles of paper on his desk and held it out to show France. "I assume this is from you," he said, smirking. He snarled immediately after. "France, will you look at me when I address you."

Her eyes snapped to his and stepped into the room, just in front of Jeanne. She tilted her chin up in defiance, eyes flashing.

England scowled and brandished the letter again. "I know you are a heathen, but I'd thought that faux-prince-" he spat the word like a swear- "of yours would have taught you better manners than to ignore a man when he's speaking."

She said nothing, just stared back at him. She thought she heard Jeanne make a noise behind her in disbelief. England was armed. She was armed...but she had no clue how she would wield her sword without injuring Jeanne in this small tent. England would probably overpower her faster than she could get Jeanne out. There was another sword- blood drying on the majestic blade- tossed carelessly to the side of the desk.

"France," England said, hissing her name, "are you listening to m-"

But he didn't get to finish that thought. His eyes had started out blistering on France's, but towards the end, they jerked just to the side and widened. Of course, what happened next went too fast for France to really piece together- she felt a whoosh go by her ear and flinched too late and the next moment, England was reeling away, a hand pressed around the blade of the knife and the growing patch of blood on the side of his ribs. He stared open mouthed as he dragged in a ragged gasp and fell back into his seat. His face was screwed up in pain as he wrenched the blade from his side, biting his lip to keep from howling. He glared at the blade in his hand, and then past France to Jeanne.

France turned to stare at the girl as she stood from her seat, wringing out her fingers and arms as she walked over to the prone figure of England. She leaned right up in his face and whispered, "You really should search your prisoners a bit better than that, _Monsieur Diable_."

She stood back and shook out her right hand before balling it up. England's eyes widened just before the fist made contact with his jaw. He was out like a light.

Jeanne looked up at her after retrieving the sword on the ground. She hefted it in her hands and smiled cheekily at France. "Well? I suggest we get running."

* * *

They snuck out of the camp- well they got halfway until they were spotted and then ran as fast as they could into the surrounding woods, Françoise's hand on his arm, leading him through the trees as though she had grown up in them. Jean couldn't help a giggle from escaping him as he followed her lead. He glanced back at the soldiers following them and the rapidly increasing distance between them.

"Duck," Françoise said hastily as they ducked under a fallen trunk. Then there was a swear and she slipped, dragging Jean down next to her , his armor banging on the muddy ground.

" _Merde_ ," Françoise hissed at his side.

Jean giggled.

She turned on her side, her breeches completely covered in smeared mud, breathing hard, almost gasping. "Are you laughing?"

Jean snickered and pressed a hand to his mouth to make himself stop. "C'mon, we gotta get to our side.

He stood up, grimacing at the mud clinging to his armor.

Françoise stared up at him before accepting the hand up. "You are strange. Where did you learn to throw knives?"

He smirked. "Same place I learned to swordfight."

She looked vaguely impressed. Then there was a shouting from behind them and she jumped into action, dragging Jean behind her again in the direction of their fortifications.

* * *

"Allistor."

He ground his teeth together and turned his head almost regretfully to look at France by his side. "Françoise," he said and then noticed the equally mud covered woman next to her. "Jeanne d'Arc."

Jeanne nodded her head in acknowledgment. France's face lit up at the obvious displeasure in his tone.

"Why are you...covered...in... _mud_?"

France waved a hand dismissively. "We fell running away from your brother's soldiers."

Scotland's jaw tensed and he looked up at the sky, praying for a little bit of patience. Jeanne turned to France and tilted his head to the side, silently asking a question.

"Arthur Kirkland is Allistor's little brother- he's the man that you called the devil." Allistor snorted as France gasped and threw her hands up excitedly. "Oh Allistor! Jeanne stabbed your brother!"

Jeanne squeaked. "I-I didn't- _Françoise_ , you cant just say those things."

France shrugged nonplussed. "It's no matter, Allistor has not spoken to his brother since- a long long time."

Scotland frowned at France, but smiled grudgingly at Jeanne. "I probably would have stabbed him too if I had the chance and I would never beget anyone the chance to ram a sharp blade into that stuck-up prick."

Jeanne blinked quickly, almost concerned as Allistor turned his attention to France. The latter was rocking back and forth on her toes, a smile in her very being. She was glowing as she watched the side of Jeanne's face. But then the girl turned to train her attention on France and- if she had been glowing before, she was radiant now.

Allistor felt the breath leave his lungs as he stared at France as she was giggling with Jeanne over something asine. He had been right- she was in love, but not with that boy that she mentioned.

"Franc-Françoise," he said softly. She turned to him, expectant, happiness radiating out from her. "I think it would be best if you and Mademoiselle D'Arc return to our current engagement," he made a motion to the battle still waging behind them. Both women looked chastened, but Jeanne reached out and took France's hand in her lightly.

"Thank you for you help," she said, her voice oddly gruff yet sweet.

France clasped the hand tighter and smiled at Jeanne. "Be safe out there."

"I will, and when I retire for the night, we should talk."

France lit up at the suggestion. "Yes, yes we should definetely."

Jeanne smiled and walked away, her hand hovering in the air after she dropped France's hand, a longing glance over her shoulder as she walked away. France was still smiling distantly in the direction that the girl had left.

"France," he said curtly. Her attention whipped back to him. He raised his eyebrows and jerked his chin back to the battle. "I don't know if you remember, being as twitter-pated as you are, but we are at war."

He turned away, missing France absently mouthing 'twitter-pated.'

* * *

A/N: There is honestly not excuse why this is so late and im really sorry about it, but i am being unduated with a ton of school work now, but I should have a little time in the coming weeks if not, well late june.


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